Snippets
by mysteriousMice
Summary: This is where I'll be posting my Sherlock ficlets. Little snippets of the lives of Sherlock Holmes and John H. Watson.
1. Apology accepted

Sherlock is close. Too close.  
>John's breath is rushed, forced, hoarse, heavy. So much confusion. So much tension. Too much. Far too much tension for one night. His abduction, the bomb, Jim, that moment when he realized that he was going to die and that moment where he realized he wasn't. It happened so fast. Too fast.<br>And Sherlock's arms are around him, holding him close. John can feel the hair on his neck rising at the very notion of Sherlock hugging him. Hugging him? Sherlock wouldn't do that. Would he?  
>Yet here he is, trapped in the detective's warm embrace. Warm. It's so warm and it more than makes up for the absence of his parka. John wants a parka as warm as Sherlock.<p>

And he's pressed against the wall, held in the arms of his replacement parka. He doesn't fight against it. He doesn't want to fight against it. It's Sherlock. It's okay.

"Sh... Sherlock." John mumbles. Sherlock pulls his face back to look into his flatmate's eyes. They're wide as saucers.

"John, I'm sorry." The words echo around the pool. It's spooky and silent except for their breath, except for their voices.

"Sorry about what?"  
>"I forgot to get the milk."<p>

John smiles.


	2. John

Fingers clicking away at a keyboard. Poking at letters, not the most proper typing style, but still functional. Sherlock watches as John drums his fingers on the side of his laptop and tries to figure out what to type next. He licks his lips for the twelfth time in the past 4 minutes. He takes a sip from the cuppa to his right, eyelids fluttering shut as he takes it in. Sherlock watches the cogs turning in his funny little head, note which fingers touch which keys, what he could be typing.

John Hamish Watson is a beautiful machine, an intricate specimen of handsomeness in itself. Sherlock could watch him forever.

There is absolutely no doubt that he's noticed the detective's gaze by now. His eyes flicker to the side to check now and again, as if he is put off by the fact that those bright grey eyes are practically feasting on him.  
>He becomes aware of the man's presence over his shoulder, the side of a head practically pressing against his cheek, a chin just barely brushing against his shoulder. His breathing pattern changes subtly—a detail that Sherlock probably wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been looking for it. His fingers stop clicking away for a moment and the detective's eyes skim over what he's just typed.<br>"_I could see the look in Sherlock's eyes - a flash of, not anger, but hurt. For a second, he looked like a little, lost child. I should have been horrified that he'd even doubt me for a second but, to be honest, it was so refreshingly human of him. He actually did value our friendship. He did, despite himself, care._"

John is looking down at the keyboard, at the desk, at the floor, somewhere away from what he's just typed and away from Sherlock.

"Hm." The detective hums in thought. John fidgets, probably due to the sound so close to his ear, but more likely due to Sherlock's interest in this paragraph.

"So. What do you think?"

"Accurate, mostly. Not sure how I like being described as a 'little, lost child,' but I can live with it." John sighs.

"Well it's my blog and I'm not going to change it." He looks up again, beginning his typing once again. The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch slightly as he stands up again and stalks off to the kitchen.


	3. Sherlock

Fingers tapping away at the surface of a table. Feet propped up on the arm of the chair, not the most proper way to relax, but still all right in this flat. John's eyes wander over to the detective many times.

Sherlock Holmes is a beautiful creature, an intricate specimen of eccentricity in itself. John could watch him forever.

And now this lovely creature has found him, has been watching him, has his eyes fixated on him like a hawk staring down a small rodent. Sherlock's bright grey eyes are practically feasting on him. John swallows. Pressure is set unto him. Sherlock's gaze feels warm and cool at the same time.

John's detective is now looming over him, watching him work away, typing an entry for the blog. His blog. Their blog.  
>They exchange a few words before Sherlock melts away into the kitchen.<p>

John releases the breath that he had been holding since Sherlock had approached him. He presses his lips together in what could be considered as a pout, but really its just habit—his body's automatic response when Sherlock puts him through something tense. Whenever Sherlock doubts him. Whenever Sherlock is just... so very Sherlock.  
>There is nothing wrong with Sherlock being himself. Nothing wrong at all—and John Watson is prepared to deal with anyone who disagrees.<p> 


End file.
